


In the Original Klingon

by Medie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Aliens, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Community: au_bingo, Genetic Engineering, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually, the man will become a memory, settling into the morass of the faces he's worn and the people he's been, but not yet. Now he sits near the surface of Derek's thoughts, making him jittery and hyper aware of his surroundings. Nothing feels right yet. Won't for a long time.</p><p>Which isn't new. He's lived with that sensation since the day he decided to follow Laura's example and enlist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Original Klingon

**Author's Note:**

> So there was this tumblr post by Saucefactory [here](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/33164951841/yeah-sure-ive-written-derek-the-vulcan-but) about TW and Star Trek AUS and the possible combinations and the next thing I know I'm writing Augment!Derek and Counselor!Stiles, accidentally filling my "Alt:Fandom:Television" square for AU_Bingo.
> 
> Cool?

His face is his own again. 

The door to Derek's temporary quarters slides shut with a soft hiss, barely audible to ears sensitive beyond human norm. He doesn't pay it any more attention than he does the starfield streaking by the viewport as the ship goes to warp. Ships have long since lost their magic for him. They're nothing more than a way-station between assignments, transport from one place to the next. A prison with warp engines. 

He growls at his own, annoyed by his own melancholy, and paces the length of the small room. 

The mission's over. He's back in his own skin. Once he's written his report, there's nothing left for him to do but sit and try to forget the person he's been for the past few months. This time it was a Cardassian, deep inside enemy lines, assigned to one of the stations near the former DMZ. No one special, but someone with access to troop movements and supply lines. Good enough to get what Starfleet needs and easily extracted when the time came.

Eventually, the man will become a memory, settling into the morass of the faces he's worn and the people he's been, but not yet. Now he sits near the surface of Derek's thoughts, making him jittery and hyper aware of his surroundings. Nothing feels right yet. Won't for a long time.

Which isn't new. He's lived with that sensation since the day he decided to follow Laura's example and enlist. 

He looks down at himself and the uniform he'd been issued when Deacon had released him from Sickbay. "Promoted again." Huh. He's a commander now, but it doesn't matter. It never has. Rank is for officers who serve openly, on ships and stations, wearing their uniforms and insignias for all Federation citizens to see. Officers who aren't Derek. 

Their uniforms don't sit on a shelf in an apartment on a world they never see and don't care about. They don't live behind alien faces and alien lives, following the orders of officers who can never forget what they are or forgive them for it.

They've never known the legacy of blood that was Kahn Noonien Singh's gift to their people. 

A blink and he's on a cold cargo bay floor, energy from a disruptor blast slowly dissipating from his body while she stood over him with a smirk of amusement on her face. _'Looks can be deceiving, people, remember that. Augments are physical perfection as this one proves. They can have the face of an angel or,'_ her smirk widened and she nudged him with her boot, _'the body of a god, but they're still murderers underneath. Every. Last. One.'_

A boot scrapes the floor, the door's sliding shut, and someone says, "Commander."

Derek reacts. There's not enough time between him and his assignment. The idea of being safe is more alien than any face he's ever worn. It's habit as much as instinct that has him lashing out, grabbing hold of the body before him and pushing backward until he hits bulkhead.

Someone yelps and he hears his name, a pressure and a presence in his head bringing him up short. Dark eyes meet his and Derek blinks.

"Oh good," the kid says, managing to sound calm despite Derek's forearm pressing into his windpipe, "You're in there. Sorry about sneaking up on you, but I chimed and you didn't answer and then there was this--" he wiggles his fingers around his head, smiling sheepishly. "It felt like you were in distress, so you know, medical override and can you not be choking me right now? Security always laughs when I have to call them into sessions."

"Who the hell are you?" Derek snap, no heat behind it. No urge to press the advantage. He remembers that pressure in his head and gives the kid a suspicious look. "What did you do to me?"

"Didn't--oh, that." He gets a dismissive shrug in answer. "Nothing, really. Just a friendly warning to your subconscious. Picked it up on my last visit to my grandmother's."

"Betazoid?"

"Quarter on my mother's side. Don't worry, I have all the mind-reading ability of a rock."

Derek doesn't believe him, but it doesn't matter. One of the gifts of his DNA is a mind that isn't easily scanned. Mollified, he lets his arm drop. 

"And I don't worry, Commander, I know I didn't answer your question. Name's Stilinski. Counselor Stilinski, but you can call me Stiles." Stilinski tugs at his uniform, putting it back to rights. "Good reflexes, by the way. You that jumpy when you're undercover?"

"No."

"Oh, so you save it just for me?" Stilinski bats his eyelashes. "I'm touched."

Derek gives him a dubious look. "Are you sure that you're a _counselor_?"

"The finest one Starfleet has to offer," Stilinski says. "Plus, apparently, I'm the only one that'll work with you. You've got a rep, Commander." 

Derek snorts. 

"And he's proud of it. Of course he is." Stilinski rolls his eyes. "We're going to have a lot of fun, I can tell. Treated survivors of occupations, natural disasters, Borg attacks, anything and everything you can think of, but I have a feeling you're going to make them all look like cakewalk."

Derek's favorite assignments are ones inside the Klingon Empire. He's never made secret of that. He _likes_ the Klingon way of doing business and its tempting to bare his teeth at Stilinski . 

Stilinski raises an eyebrow. "Qapla'."

His voice is drier than a Vulcan summer day and stops Derek cold. He wonders for a second, but Stiles doesn't give him any longer than that.

"No, you didn't say anything out loud." He shrugs. "Read your file. You make a good Klingon." 

Stilinski straightens up, hands going behind his back in, what Derek assumes is meant to be, a professional posture. 

"It's like this, Commander; whether you like it or not, I've been assigned your file. That means I have to actually talk to you. You are actually going to talk to me. We'll have sessions, they'll be productive, and then I sign off on a report and you go on keeping the world safe for men, women, and gentlebeings of all identities. Sound good?"

"Gentlebeings? Are you _sure_ you're a counselor?"

Stilinski grins. "Uh huh. _Your_ counselor." He moves past Derek in a quick dart, heading for the replicator, "So pull up a couch. I'll grab the raktajinos and you can tell me all about pretending to be a homicidal lizard out to take over the galaxy."

Derek isn't sure what part is more surreal: the part where Stilinski actually said that or the part where _he does as he's told._

He's not going to ask. He just sits. It seems easier this way. At least for now. 

"You can call me Stiles, by the way," Stilinski says, turning with mugs in hand. "And forget trying to get out of this. Command policy. Besides, Commander, you've spent more time wearing someone else's face than your own. Think, maybe, there's something to why you keep doing that?"

He sits down and promptly spills the coffee on his pants.

Derek doesn't bother hiding a grin. 

This should be the easiest assignment he's ever had.

That thought lasts just as long as it takes for Stilinski to jump up and unzip his pants.


End file.
